


A Night Off

by Nopride4531



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Word Prompts, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13988322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: A quiet night in the Ragged Flagon.





	A Night Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Quiet

Quiet nights in the Flagon were rare these days, days when the Guild saw more business than any shop in Skyrim. With Mercer dead and Nocturnal pleased, Colrina found herself in charge of keeping the coin flowing, the jobs steady, and the new recruits in line. Being Guildmaster—a responsibility she willingly accepted—proved difficult. It wasn’t, however, without its perks; she’d gained more wealth in a month than most folk made in their entire lives. But, with her back nearly breaking from all the work, she longed for time to rest, to call her own, to give her a chance to breathe.

Tonight, her wish was granted. Delvin and Vex, recognizing the stress of her job, allowed a few of the new recruits to take Colrina’s usual work. Nothing else needed doing for once, and so she took the opportunity to grab some mead from Vekel and relax at one of the tables. She’d splurged on a bottle of Black-Briar Reserve, the taste of which she loved. Expensive, sure, but worth every septim. 

As she leaned back in her chair, she allowed her shoulders to completely rid themselves of tension. Normally, Colrina was always alert, ready for anything, be it a mugging or—Divines forbid—a dragon attack. But in the Flagon, she knew she was safe. No one would hurt her; no one would even try. As Guildmaster, she now maintained an aura of authority, an authority her recruits and friends respected. Despite Skyrim’s many dangers and every trial she’d ever faced, she could finally say she’d found her place. 

“Quiet for once, isn’t it, Lass?”

Colrina didn’t jump at the voice, didn’t react beyond a wide smile. Throughout her time with the Guild, she’d learned to expect Brynjolf to appear out of nowhere. Turning her head, she met his eyes and motioned for him to sit opposite her. 

“Take a load off for a while,” she invited, and tried not to seem overly excited when he took a seat. It was no secret they hadn’t been spending that much time together as of late, but Colrina was glad for an opportunity to start fixing that. “Want some mead?” She held up a small coin purse. “On me.”

Brynjolf mimicked her smile and signaled for Vekel. “Think I’ll take you up on that offer.” He drummed his fingers against the table. “Been a long time since I’ve had a drink.”

“Same here.” Colrina nodded at Vekel as he placed another bottle of Black-Briar Reserve in front of Brynjolf. “Can’t remember my last night off.” 

She did, in fact, remember it. She remembered it as well as any weighted experience. Similar to now, she and Brynjolf had enjoyed a drink at the Flagon, though a hint of _something_ had been in the air. It was the night before they went after Mercer, the night Brynjolf revealed he wanted Colrina to take over leadership of the Guild, and neither one of them had known if they would come back from Irkngthand alive. 

But that was then, and this was now. Mercer was dead and the Thieves Guild lived—thrived, even. Colrina knew she shouldn’t trouble herself with memories of the past. The past was over, gone, and it could never hurt her again… Though sometimes, if she moved a certain way, she could still feel the fire of Mercer’s blade as it pierced her stomach. Her hand involuntarily went to the spot on her armor that covered the scar. She almost expected phantom pain to explode behind her fingertips. And even though Mercer had perished by her hand, there were nights she lay awake in bed, wishing she’d done more to make him suffer.

“Col?”

Shaking her head, Colrina directed her attention back to Brynjolf. Concern etched itself firmly on his face, and she offered him a small smile in an attempt to ease his mind.

“Sorry,” she said, taking a sip of her mead. “Just thinking.”

Brynjolf nodded, green eyes still troubled. “About Mercer.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question. How he could read her so effortlessly escaped Colrina completely, but there was no use in denying the statement. He would all-too-easily see through the lie. Brynjolf was nothing if not perceptive, and that perception—love it or hate it—was part of what fueled their connection. 

“Yeah.” Colrina averted her gaze. “I… I do that a lot.” 

“So do I,” Brynjolf said as he reached across the table and gently covered her hand with his own. “But there’s not a doubt in my mind that he deserved what he got.”

She sighed and sipped at the mead again. “I know… But sometimes I still think he’s here. And I hate it.”

They were both silent after that revelation. Brynjolf’s eyes darkened, and Colrina knew he was thinking about their final encounter with Mercer. She couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like, being forced by a spell to fight Karliah. And despite that it was all said and done, the wounds inflicted to the three of them still stung. For weeks after Mercer’s death, Colrina noticed that Brynjolf couldn’t even look Karliah in the eye, let alone speak to her. She wondered if that was why the Dark Elf had decided to make Nightingale Hall her home instead of the Cistern. She hoped she was wrong. 

“He can’t cause anymore damage,” Colrina suddenly found herself saying. “Not to Nocturnal, the Guild… or us.” 

“Aye.” Brynjolf smiled slightly and gave her hand a light squeeze. Lifting his bottle of mead, he held it out for a toast. “May he rot in Oblivion.” 

They clinked their bottles together and drank. Highly conscious of the fact that Brynjolf was still holding her hand, Colrina set her mead aside and pushed a lock of brown hair out of her face. She didn’t know the time, but she knew she was content to sit in the Flagon with him for hours on end. And, judging by the look on his face, he felt the same way. 

She grabbed her mead again after a few minutes of silence. “To the Guild,” she said with a genuine grin. “May it last another thousand years.”

Brynjolf picked up his bottle as well. “To the Guild,” he winked at her, “and the Guildmaster.”


End file.
